


Confrontation With a Kiss

by kubotits



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Family, First Time, Gen, IIHD, International IchiRuki Hentai Day, Pillow Fight, Sloppy Makeouts, Well for Ichigo lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kubotits/pseuds/kubotits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some downtime while Riruka is being healed, and Ichigo and Rukia have a lot of catching up to do. At least that's what the rest of the Kurosaki family seems to think, and maybe they're right. [Some sort of a companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/756578">Where Your Hands Were Missing</a> (hence the title coming from the same song: Fire Door by Ani DiFranco), but you don't need to have read it for this one to make sense.] Contains spoilers for The Lost Agent arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confrontation With a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> At least a small part of this is dedicated to [Roy](http://roymustang.tumblr.com/), who has been waiting a long time for Isshin to mention Masaki to Rukia. 
> 
> Though it's set the same time as What the Living Do, it's more of an alternate canon-addition. Because smut. This actually originally intended to just be pure fluff but it somehow evolved into dirty stuff, eheh. 
> 
> Posting a couple hours early, but seeing as I've been working on this since _last year's_ IIHD (sweat drop), you _could_ say it's around 364 days late. I prefer early. Early is nice. Anyway, please enjoy! And have a happy International IchiRuki Hentai Day!

From the moment the door swung open, before she could even manage a greeting, Rukia was instantly body-slammed by two teenaged girls she hardly recognized anymore. With an exclamation of, “Welcome back, Rukia-chan!” and two tight squeezes, the twins Yuzu and Karin greeted their lost “sister.”

“I'm back,” she replied shakily, reciprocating the hug. She wasn't used to being missed.

They broke the embrace and looked at her with big smiles and bigger bodies. They had grown so much.

Then Isshin stepped forward. His warm smile gave a soft quality to his face, with the hard-angled jaw Ichigo had inherited unclenched and relaxed. “Thank you. I didn't get the chance before so, thank you. For all that you've done for my family.” Gently, he put his hand on Rukia's shoulder and told her, “I wish Masaki could have met you. She would have liked you.”

Rukia felt as if she were being enveloped by something warm and cozy; she nodded her thanks, but felt if she said anything she would cry. At a loss for words, she continued to gape at the family that had temporarily been hers, mouth open as if to speak with nothing coming. She turned back to Ichigo, a plea in her eyes as if asking, _Help me_. Once they had stepped in and seen the twins back to normal, the effects of Tsukishima's Book of the End now gone, he had been frozen in place. Now, with Rukia's eyes on him, he mentally shook himself and moved to save her.

Grinning, he obliged by pestering the twins before one of them could scold their father for “saying weird things,” “What? No warm welcome for your only brother?”

“We see you every day,” countered Karin, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue.

Yuzu just ignored him. “Come in!” she exclaimed, grasping Rukia by the hand and dragging her in, giving her barely enough time to haphazardly kick off her shoes. “You're just in time for dinner!”

Rukia could only manage a surprised, “Oh!” as she was pulled along towards the dining table. Behind her, Ichigo carefully closed the door and neatly arranged her shoes. He had missed this, their interaction. A part of him wished he hadn't spent all that time training, just so he could see Rukia dote on his sisters, and vice versa. They got along so well.

Isshin had lingered with him, and took the chance to fold his arms over his chest and let out a satisfied sigh, bumping shoulders with his son. “Warms the heart to see my daughters reunited,” he commented.

“'Daughters'?” Ichigo scoffed incredulously.

“Yeah,” he answered simply, raising his eyebrows before walking toward them.

Ichigo tried not to think about it too hard as he followed them into the dining room.

xxx

The seating arrangement was the same familiar alignment as it had been when she'd lived there last: beside Yuzu on her right, across from Ichigo, who was beside Karin, with Isshin at the head of the table. Same people, same table, but it felt different. It was not the same Ichigo in front of her, all broader and taller. Most people in Soul Society meant to reset themselves after the war against Aizen through changes of style, both hair and outfit, but not Ichigo—there was not a thing different, if only the extension of sideburns, which were only more indicative of a man grown.

Though, she conceded, he had already been a man when she left him all those months ago—but certainly not the same man. Yes, his unyielding ideals, commitment of duty and honor, and how true he was to himself remained steady; his heart hadn't changed, but his spirit had. This Ichigo was more muted, tired. Older. Much older than he should have been. She had watched the evolution from boy to man before, but not in such a short time as Ichigo—and it was her doing. Guilt struck her hard and fast like a knife to the chest, but she quelled it. This had been her decision: she had made peace with pulling him back into the life he had been forced to abandon. This was what he wanted, and therefore what _she_ wanted. She had put that guilt to bed, she couldn't backpedal now.

Although...now that he was restored, powers renewed, this was an Ichigo more similar to when he had rescued her in Soul Society. Framed by the fires of Soukyoku or the setting sun, a grin on his face. As if the grump in him had been sapped away: happiness. It was that smile, that almost secret smile, that he seemed to reserve only for when she walked—leapt, more like—back into his life. And she couldn't help but reflect that, reminding herself that pulling him back in was the best decision that she had ever made. If only she had done it sooner. She ached to think he had spent all those months near his breaking point until Ginjou had pushed him too far. She never wanted to see him like that ever again.

Across from her, Ichigo pulled back a little, unnerved by her staring. He put a hand over his face as if to check to see if he had rice stuck to his chin, but she only smiled weakly and shook her head.

The twins regaled Rukia with tales of the past months she was away and hassled her for details on why she left, where she was, etc. Ichigo tried to help fill in the blanks, but was such an awful liar, he did more harm than good—often prompting a kick under the table from Rukia.

“Stop _doing_ that!” he hissed after the third assault, leaning down to rub his newly wounded shin.

Rukia turned her head to the side, as if holding back tears. Exasperated, Ichigo put down his chopsticks and folded his arms across his chest. So she was going to go for _that_ tactic again? Sure enough, she wasted no time launching into a sob story about how her estranged and cruel “uncle” dragged her off and forced her to drop out of school and work in his dirty convenience store, far away, and because she finally escaped his torment she wouldn't be able to stay long—all the while dabbing her eyes dramatically with her napkin.

“Stay as long as you can!” cried Yuzu, clinging to Rukia's dress and staring up at her with misty eyes.

Karin didn't look too convinced, but when she turned in Ichigo's direction she didn't speak up. She had learned her lesson from the last time she confronted Ichigo about his shinigami business: it hurt less to pretend to be ignorant than to be directly lied to. She wasn't too confident that he would ever confess about it, but she had the hope. Isshin, on the contrary, smiled knowingly, exchanging a look with Ichigo, who tried his hardest not to roll his eyes and went back to eating.

“Rukia-chan,” began Isshin, still looking at Ichigo before turning to comment, “your haircut's very cute.”

“Oh! Th-thank you,” stammered Rukia, caught off-guard.

Ichigo squinted at his father suspiciously, sure that there was some underlying ulterior motive to the compliment.

“Did you get your heart broken?” he asked.

 _God dammit, Dad._ Ichigo's hand on his chopsticks clenched, nearly snapping them in half, eyes twitching.

“Dad!” scolded Yuzu.

“N-no...I just wanted a change...” explained Rukia, self-consciously fiddling with the ends.

“Oh, I see. Something like that then,” Isshin conceded, sending Ichigo another knowing look. Ichigo began to shove food into his mouth, a disdainful glare permanently aimed at his ridiculous father.

xxx

After dinner, while the dishes were being washed (Rukia had offered to help but Yuzu had shooed her away), Ichigo, Rukia, and Isshin convened at the base of the staircase.

Before going up to his room, Ichigo had something to say, so he stuffed his hands in his pockets before addressing Isshin, “Hey, Old Man...thanks.” He looked pained, as if his gratefulness came with a certain a reluctance.

Isshin seemed confused a moment, his forehead creasing. “For what?”

“Engetsu. Rukia told me...the sword they used to restore my powers, your zanpakuto was its base, right?” Pausing, he gripped his elbow with the opposite hand, self-consciously rubbing along his arm. “Anyway, thanks.”

“Hey, I have to be a good father to you every once in a while,” replied Isshin awkwardly. He looked away, cleared his throat before Ichigo could say anything, and opened his mouth to speak. “There's the new _Bura Tama_ movie”—at which point both Ichigo and Rukia tried their best not to be visibly horrified by the fact that Don Kan'onji's face was going to be on the _big screen—_ “I was gonna take the girls,” he added nonchalantly while throwing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his daughters.

Ichigo frowned, narrowed his eyes. “Karin hates _Bura Tama_...almost as much as I do...”

“Well,” began Isshin, with a weak smile, “we just thought we'd let you two catch up. It's been a while.”

Taken aback, Ichigo stared. He had expected something completely different from his father—a suggestive waggle of the eyebrow, navigating Rukia through the family photo albums, or any number of possible ways to embarrass him. Actual sensitivity was not something he had seen coming, nor prepared for.

Before Ichigo could thank him, however, Isshin stage-whispered, “You could use some _alone time_ , huh?” Isshin guffawed raunchily, lightly elbowing Ichigo as if they had an in-joke. “ _Huh_?”

 _There_ it was.

Ichigo's eye twitched, right before he returned his father's nudge by delivering a swift, sharp blow with his very own elbow to the ribs. Isshin doubled over, hand over the hurt area and melodramatically moaning in pain.

“My only son!” he lamented, twirling around on the tip of his toe like a prima ballerina, then rushing to the wall where he kept the poster of his late wife. “Masaki! Mother!” He rubbed his bearded cheek against the sheet of paper. “Our only son! Abusing Daddy! Refusing to give us grandchildren!”

“Gra... _grandchildren_ —!!” exclaimed a bright red, indignant Ichigo.

Meanwhile, Rukia was attempting not to snicker, and failing; although her blush was just as prominent as Ichigo's.

“Just _go_ ,” he commanded haughtily through clenched teeth, turning away from his flamboyant father and starting up the stairs.

Rukia followed, but turned back to look at Isshin, who, for but a moment, smiled reassuringly at her as if wishing her luck. She bowed her head slightly, then bounded up the stairs. Despite his tactlessness, he was on their side.

xxx

Unceremoniously, Ichigo swung open the door to his bedroom and awkwardly gestured inside. Rukia dipped her head beneath his arm where he held the door for her, and began to scrutinize the room curiously. She wasn't impressed; it didn't seem like anything had changed, in fact. It was just as together and unexciting as always, the stark opposite of its inhabitant.

Smirking, she set straight for the bed, sinking onto the edge and crossing her ankles in front of her. Ichigo groaned, halfheartedly chastising, “Don't sit on my bed.”

Swinging her legs, she ignored him. Ichigo leaned against the wall with his shoulder, crossed his arms, then put his hands in his pockets, then crossed his arms again. He settled for standing up straight, changed his mind again, and took a seat in his desk chair. To make it seem like she hadn't noticed his nervous fidgeting, Rukia pretended she was busy inspecting her surroundings, even though she'd already made her assessment.

“Your room is the same as usual,” she commented, and he knew what was coming once her eyes met his. Her lips curled into her cruelest, teasing smile. “Tiny.”

Ichigo sighed. “Didn't I tell you not to compare my room to Byakuya's mansion?!”

With downcast eyes, Rukia stared at her knees, tugged her dress over them. “Yeah. It's not like big rooms are all they're cracked up to be. They can be lonely,” she admitted.

Ichigo shrugged. “It's not like smaller rooms change anything.”

The air was suddenly all too thick, tension filling the space between them. Frustrated and annoyed with the current situation, Rukia grabbed hold of the pillow on Ichigo's bed. She swung it in a long arc that, with his honed senses, Ichigo should have been able to stop—but it came as such a surprise that she would attack him in such a way he was caught off-guard, as he always was when it came to Rukia. The pillow collided with his head with a _whumph!_

“Ow!” cried Ichigo, rubbing his forehead indignantly. “That actually hurt.”

“If it did, then you really have gotten weak while I was gone,” she scoffed.

For emphasis, she swung the pillow again, aiming for across his cheek; the blow would have landed had Ichigo not battle-cried, “I'll show you weak!” and tackled her back onto his bed.

She was brutal, and he was no gentleman. Quick-thinking Rukia still struck out, hitting his waist, torso, shoulder, anywhere she could while he tried his hardest to wrest the fluffy weapon from her grip. Her slight body did her well as it did in most fights, wriggling free, standing up on his bed and attacking from all sides. Pretty soon they were both laughing so hard at their own ridiculousness it became much more difficult to properly fight. However, so relentless was Ichigo's determination to best her, he grappled her round the waist, pulling her down with him onto his soft mattress. Stunned, the shock of the air knocked from her lungs made Rukia drop the pillow (a foolish, rookie mistake!)—but she wasn't pinned for long. The pillow lay rumpled and useless beside them as they fought a new battle for dominance, shifting weight, tightening muscles—eventually Rukia had her way, effectively turning the tables on Ichigo by reclaiming her rightful place atop him.

She laughed triumphantly, her knees around his hips securely keeping him in his proper place. Her hair was slightly mussed, with her eyes alight, and cheeks flushed with exertion. She looked more alive than Ichigo had ever seen her. He only grinned at his defeat, with a flush of his own, though for different reasons than hers. His hands rested comfortably on her now-exposed thighs, the hem of her dress having wandered its way up in their tussle.

“I missed you,” he finally admitted breathlessly.

“Shut up,” she laughed, grabbing the nearby pillow and shoving it over his face.

“Mmmnghph!” was his dramatic response and he writhed beneath her, pretending to suffocate. His hands flailed, fingers finding their way into her hair, pressed tentatively to her neck. The calloused tips felt inexplicably good against her skin. Gently, he tugged at her hair, another sensation that sent an “ _oh_ ” past her lips and a shock down her spine. The tugging became more urgent, as if he were trying to indicate something.

Oh! He wasn't pretending anymore.

“Rukia!” he gasped in protest once she moved the pillow away.

“I said shut up,” she muttered before their lips met, before she could lose her nerve. She felt rather than heard a sigh come from him, as if he'd been waiting all his life for her to kiss him.

Ichigo's chest rose like the tides, while Rukia kept her hands to him firmly, unyielding, making his breaths shallow. Hungry for air, hungry for her, his nostrils filled with her scent; something undeniably clean he couldn't quite place, like the sidewalk after rain or the beginning of a snowfall. There was another slight pull of her hair—much more insistent this time—but to make her stay near, keep her mouth pressed to his. She rocked against him, and when she'd pull away even for just a moment, his lips would chase after. Involuntarily, Rukia's hips began to grind against him, lost in the kiss. Ichigo groaned, guttural and wild in nature.

Panting, this time Ichigo let Rukia's silken hair slip through his fingers when she pulled away from him. As he tried to catch his breath, his hands found the curve of her waist above her hips, thumbs making small circles over her ribcage. Rukia raised her eyebrows, eyes darting down to where their pelvises met, apparently indicating her incredulity of what was pushing up from behind the denim of Ichigo's jeans. Pink tinged her cheeks; her boldness seemed to be shrinking.

“Like I said, I've... _really_ missed you,” he explained with a shrug, a hand half in his hair, half over his face as if attempting to hide the tell-tale blush creeping its way up his neck. Although the statement seemed smooth and nonchalant, his face showed what he was thinking—which was much closer to _Oh God, oh God, oh God_ than what he had said _._ On his best days he couldn't fool anyone, least of all Rukia. Today was no different. She was all too aware of his reaction to her every shift of weight, every slight movement eliciting a halved breath. His hand slid down his forehead and covered his eyes as he tried to focus on his breathing.

“Oh?” she asked coyly, leaning down over him once again. Her heartbeat quickened, and something akin to a tornado twisted its way through her insides—not a fluttering of butterflies as advertised, but a storm of destructive force. So he _had_ thought of her. Good. Her nose tipped his for a moment, hovering over him. Her shorter hair hung forward, skittering against his flushed skin. “How much?”

Ichigo had fought dozens of enemies, with gaping maws and unreasonably strong powers, but never had he felt less brave than in this moment. What would it mean to move forward from here? For them, collectively? For him and her, individually? Was this merely a step, or a leap? Either way, he wasn't letting this pass by. Because, yes, he _had_ thought of her. Oh _God_ , had he thought of her—and it was time he made those thoughts realities.

“I'll show you,” whispered Ichigo as he surged to reunite their lips.

In nearly every manga she had ever read for research of the Land of the Living, Rukia had come across descriptions of heroines feeling weak in the presence of their lovers; in this instant, she had never felt anything so far from it. She felt powerful.

However, Ichigo had his own tricks, his own forms of vengeance. Strong hands slid over Rukia's waist, up the length of her torso, stealing the breath out of her the same way she had him. They clumsily, though gently, fumbled over her breasts; the feel of him made her jaw drop in a shocked gasp, sucking the air from Ichigo's lungs. When she pulled from the kiss, she let out his name, the heat of the word crashing against his cheek.

Weren't they going a little...fast? The thought crossed both of their minds, but something inside kept them from slowing, from stopping. It was that storm Rukia felt, raging through each of them. It had been far too long since they'd been near one another. There was a lot of pent-up frustration that needed releasing.

Ichigo shifted to sit up, pushing Rukia's dress even further up her thighs. With eyes dark and intense, but a grin almost boyishly tentative, Ichigo slid his hands down and around to take hold of Rukia's ass. She jumped a little, giving a shriek and a sly look once she recovered from the shock. He'd taken her by surprise, he realized, suddenly quite prideful. It took a lot to surprise a Kuchiki. He sunk to the crook of her neck and shoulder, smelling her, brushing his lips against her smooth skin. Her breath hitched as he pressed her closer still to him, quickened when his tongue met her flesh, stopped when he began suckling.

Rukia leaned into his open lips, moaned, and if she had the ability of cognitive speech at the moment, would have begged him to mark her. She wanted something to remember this by, a token, proof: something she didn't have when she had left him all those months ago.

When he pulled back, eyeing his handiwork with an embarrassed smile, he gave a small sigh and she knew he was thinking the same thing. Returning the favor, she leaned forward, catching his collar bone in an open-mouthed kiss. Rukia could feel the shiver that traveled the length of Ichigo's spine, the slight gasp at her ear. It took a lot to bruise Ichigo, but in the end there flared the red hickey.

Melancholy etched her beautiful features. Touching her fingers to the mark, she whispered, “I wish I could have left something like this...”—Ichigo took her hand from his chest and began gently pressing his lips to her knuckles; he never wanted to stop kissing her—“one that lasted for how long I was gone.”

“Seventeen months,” he supplied before he could stop himself, his lips freezing on her hand.

Rukia tried not to giggle. “Not that you were counting or anything,” she teased.

Laying back, he rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair once again as if he regretted the involuntary confession, but didn't say anything to backtrack or deny it.

“I was counting too,” she admitted softly before leaning down to meet his lips once more. He held her by the elbows, keeping her close, as if he were afraid at any moment she'd disappear again.

Sitting up, Rukia tended to Ichigo's shirt, searching for a hem to sneak her fingers behind. Running her hands over his chest, she found him surprisingly sensitive, bucking as a thumb brushed against a nipple, a scar, the ridges of his ribs and abs. Continuing their journey as if they had minds of their own, her hands moved his shirt up over his head. At his wrists she left it bunched, his arms almost-pinned over his head. He didn't seem to mind, as she slid her palms over the length of his arms, past his bent elbows, to finally find their new home on his biceps.

She kissed him once more, before succumbing to the nagging tug at the hem of her dress by leaning back and attempting to pull it up over her head—but it didn't quite make it. Tangled, with her elbows above her head, the inside of the dress smothered her face and trapped her. Rukia sighed, wondering why she was acting so nervous. This wasn't her first time, but—this was Ichigo. And he meant more than anything had ever meant to her. Giving up, she slumped in a bodily pout, and Ichigo tried his hardest not to laugh as he came to her rescue, sitting up and shirking his pseudo restraints. Once the offending garment was thrown aside, Rukia blushed beet-red as the laugh Ichigo had been holding hit her head on.

“Shut _up_ ,” she ground out hotly, slapping his shoulder, but leaving her hand there.

Ichigo cocked his head to the side before pressing the lightest of kisses against her lips. She'd gone shy, so he tried to coax her back to him, leaving tiny, chaste kisses scattered over her rosy cheeks. Obligingly, she compromised by kissing him sweetly on the nose, which he scrunched up in response. A smile broke over her face as she wrapped her arms around his neck, tossing out her previous embarrassment. Because, oh, this _was_ Ichigo. She could be foolish, herself, whatever, and he'd always be there. With him, she had nothing to worry about.

And oh _God_ , the way he was looking at her now, jaw-dropped and wide-eyed, as if she were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in this world—as if she were his whole world. The way his sight line followed the contours of her body, the peak of her breasts, the flat of her stomach, the apex of her legs, the supple muscles of her thighs, was incredible. To not only be looked at but _seen_ with such clarity and admiration and love—it would give any girl the power to conquer timidity.

With new zealous, Rukia snapped her hips forward against Ichigo's length. He threw his head back, crying out, again trying his best to steady his breathing. The constricting pressure of his jeans was deliciously merciless, and he found himself moving with her rhythmically. From an inch away, Rukia watched his eyes watching their bodies moving in harmony.

She had to ask, breathless, “Did you think of me? Did you, _ah_!”—he had rutted just against her clit, connecting sweetly and dragging the soft sound from her as pleasure bloomed—“Did you think of this?”

Ichigo seemed confused by the question, unable to respond, or to put even the words in the right order to comprehend what she was asking when her voice was that low and smoldering. She could have said anything, but there was that rising inflection: a question, a question she wanted an answer to. She stopped, waiting for his reply, but all he could do was let out a soft whine. Why'd she have to stop? Moving back, even denying that sweet weight against his cock, she unfastened the button of his jeans, then went to the zipper—

“Did you touch yourself?” the implied _thinking about me_ was not lost on Ichigo, though words of his own still seemed far from his grasp.

He leaned back on his elbows, watching her, and she relished in the wide-eyed stupefied look on his face. Crouching between his legs, she pulled back his boxer briefs, revealing his cock. He could feel her breath on it, and it twitched in response. Head lolling back, Ichigo shut his eyes.

“Fuck, Rukia,” seemed all he could get out in a hoarse whisper.

Her fingers wrapped around him, not at all tentative or experimental. This was something she was good at.

 _Too_ good.

“Did you do this?” she repeated, slowing her stroking.

“Yes,” he gasped, “yes, yes, _God_ yes.” Whether he was really answering her question or expressing his own desire to thrust into her fist wasn't clear (although both were true), but the answer seemed to satisfy Rukia, a smirk at her lips. A moment of clarity rung in Ichigo's mind, bringing about a thought. All coy, he cocked his head to the side, and added: “Did you?”

Smooth.

Rukia avoided the question, another tinge of pink at her cheeks. Ah, that was answer enough for Ichigo.

She stopped. “Show me,” she said. That _wasn't_ a question. It was a command.

Ichigo was taken aback, but soon caught on. Her blush had emboldened him, giving him the strength to retort, “Ladies first.”

She gave him a withering glare, so innately hostile that he thought for a moment she would leave until it slowly turned into a smile, and a reluctant one at that. “Idiot,” she chuckled, but, impressed with his surge of confidence, complied by plunging a hand down the front of her panties, slicking a finger over her wet folds. 

With an annoyed, upward flick of her eyebrows, she silently told him,  _Your turn_. Slowly, he began pumping his cock, staring at her in disbelief. Her erect nipples peeked through her bra, chest heaving. She was on her knees, legs apart, and he could see the outline of her fingers moving against herself through her panties.

It didn't take him long to become frustrated, though, stopping entirely. “Rukia,” he began, barely enough strength in his voice, “Rukia, I spent all those months doing this imagining _you_ ” _—_ she let out a soft groan, already knowing the words coming next—“I want _you_.”

She thought he'd never ask.

“Are they still there?” she directed the question at Ichigo. It took him less than half a second to realize that by “they” she meant his condoms and “there” was a drawer of his desk, the one she was offhandedly jerking her head at.

He nodded, not bothering to ask how she knew where he kept them or if she was looking for a deeper meaning if they had indeed moved. She had to know, he thought, she had to know that there was only ever her. Only her.

But he said nothing as she lifted herself off the bed. Sitting up, he suddenly felt all too exposed, watching her lithe, half-covered body move smoothly to the desk.

“Can gigai even _get_ pregnant?” he asked, genuinely curious, once she returned.

Rukia tilted her head to the side. “You know, I honestly never asked.”

She had some difficulty opening the condom package. She had never used one of these before, of course, never having much access to safe sex information growing up in Rukongai. Impatiently, Ichigo leaned forward to help her, taking it from her shaking hands and ripping it open. It felt like the day he had shown her how to put a straw in a juice box.

Except this time, _neither_ of them really knew what they were doing. Putting it on was another case entirely, even trickier than the last challenge they faced. It...took a second try. Ichigo watched her make her way back to the desk drawer again for a new condom. He was impressed by the way that Rukia could giggle her way through any situation, whereas he flushed from head to toe. She seemed so confident, and even when her confidence did waver, it bounced right back. But then, he realized, this was what sex was: not just mutual desire, but _connection_. And they had that.

Speechless, with his mouth slightly agape, Ichigo watched as Rukia stepped off beside the bed, removing her panties and letting them drop to the floor. When she came back to him, she pushed him back onto the bed by the shoulders. He fell back with ease, watching her steadily. It had to be the first time he had ever seen her truly nervous. He knew why, he knew what was in her head, because it was in his: she was desperately wondering if they were making a mistake going through with this so brashly. It was gone in a flash, though, from both their minds. Because how could this be a mistake, when it felt so _right_? They felt they had been waiting all their lives for each other. His hands, a gentle, comforting weight, found themselves back on her thighs, suspended above him. It was then that he wasn't sure if he said her name aloud or not; maybe he did, maybe he didn't. All he knew for sure was that his eyes didn't leave her indigo ones until her core touched the tip of his cock, and he couldn't help but shut them tight.

Something between a grunt and a whimper came from behind his gritted teeth as Rukia steadied her small hands against his chest to lower herself around him. A sigh escaped her parted lips as she slid her way down, but she didn't dare close her eyes, she didn't dare let them leave him as he turned aside and bit his lip.

“Ichigo,” she whispered, a little winded, “open your eyes. Look at me.” She begged, “ _See_ me.”

Through the haze of sensation, Ichigo obeyed, and Rukia saw something she wasn't expecting, that caught her completely off-guard: he smiled. The biggest, most contagious grin she had ever seen. On _Ichigo's_ face, of all faces. His eyes were bright and crinkled, drinking every inch of her in. She couldn't help but return his happiness, a smile just as deliriously gleeful as his when she leaned down to kiss him. Suddenly giddy, though, they giggled into it, lips merely bumping and teeth knocking. It only made them laugh harder, forgetting the position they were in for just a fraction of a second. Rukia slid her arms up his torso, her hands cupped either side of his face. They searched each other's eyes for a moment longer, still beaming, but their lips finally able to meet to kiss properly.

She then moved, up, ever so slowly, then back down, grinding against him. She pulled back to watch his reaction as she continued. One of Ichigo's hands, warm and big, found her back, fumbling with the straps of her bra. The other hand soon followed, trying his damnedest to get the fucking thing off, but of course it was hopeless. With another of her signature smirks, Rukia sat up, leaning back on his cock—bringing forth a gasp from the both of them—to unhook her bra and throw it off to the side. They were pert and perfect little handfuls, and bounced with her movements.

It was then that Ichigo sat up, thrusting up into her, a steadying hand at her back. He pulled her close to him, leaving a kiss at her hairline, and a cheeky grope of one of her breasts. She was so petite, he could easily lift her up around his cock then gently down again. Her lungs stuttered on a breath when he leaned into her, trailing fleeting kisses down her cheeks, neck, collar bone. They moved in tandem, her hot breath hissing in his ear, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled at his hair.

“Back when you were away,” he muttered into her skin, lips brushing against her. “Sometimes...sometimes I wondered if I had just made it all up. That you weren't real.”

“What about now?” she breathed, twisting her fingers into the hair that just started at the nape of his neck. “Do I feel real to you?”

“Yes.” He pressed a kiss to the peak of her shoulder, holding her closer still. “ _Yes_.”

They fiercely clung to each other, Ichigo's hands leaving imprints on Rukia's waist. Again, she hoped he would bruise her, she wished for marks, reminders. She didn't want to leave him again; she wanted him to stay inside her. Their movements became more frantic, faster and more sporadic. Ichigo's breath came quicker against her. She bit his ear, worrying the lobe between her teeth, trying to anchor herself. Groaning, he began to suck at her neck again.

“Ah, _please_ ,” she murmured once she had released him.

She fell from his mouth with a soft laugh that was cut short by the tingling at the base of his spine, the match that had been struck and built a fire, now roaring, in the pit of his stomach. His breathing became increasingly more shallow, the need for that fire to spread and the need to slow down warring inside him. Rukia held him fast, cradling his head against her chest as he nipped the peak of her breast, leaving little almost apologetic kisses behind. She pushed him against her, prompting more, but he only kept his rain of butterfly kisses over her chest, the tip of his nose dragging over her skin. He breathed her in, tried to think of anything but her and thinking of nothing else, he tried to draw this out but—

“Rukia,” he cried out. “Rukia!”

Rukia understood what he meant. She was close herself, not nearly close enough, but she didn't mind. “Shh, it's okay, it's okay, Ichigo, you can come,” she whispered. She didn't stop undulating her hips against him, guiding him to orgasm. “Look at me,” she repeated, lifting his chin with the tips of her fingers. His eyes met hers, and he was gone, the fire consuming him. “Come for me.” She brought her lips to his and he whimpered into the kiss, then pulled back to cry out as it racked his body. He shuddered inside her.

“I'm sorry, Rukia,” he breathed as she lifted herself off of him.

He had expected her to be upset, but on the contrary, Rukia was beaming fondly. “I told you, it's okay.” She gave him a small peck on the forehead.

“But...but you didn't—”

“Oh, Ichigo,” she sighed, resting her forehead against his. “There's always next time.”

His eyes lit up. “Next time?” he asked, a little too hopeful.

Rukia nodded, returning his smile.

xxx

It didn't take them long before they were under the blankets, Rukia snug in the crook of his arm, a finger idly tracing circles into his bare chest that rose and fell so steadily. She bit her lip, not wanting to say aloud what she had to.

“With Dokugamine Riruka being healed,” she began, flattening her hand over his heart, “I'm just waiting on my superiors to make the call. I can't stay, you know that. Pretty soon, I'm going to have to—”

“Go back. I know. I know, you've got vice-captain duties, I understand.” He paused, putting a hand over hers. He could feel his own heartbeat through her. “I'm...meaning to go back to Soul Society myself. For Ginjou's remains. I want to give him a proper burial. I don't like how easily they discarded a human shinigami like me.”

Rukia propped herself up on an elbow, leaning her cheek on a hand. “Ah,” she murmured wistfully, “you've grown up.”

He chuckled. “Oh, shut up. It's your fault anyway.”

“Don't say that!” she scolded, reluctantly adding, “Even if it is a little true...”

Ichigo laughed, and it was one of the most beautiful sounds Rukia had ever heard. She wished he laughed more, even if it was at her expense. But she didn't let herself be dazzled, pulling the pillow they had fought so vehemently for from underneath his head. He could hardly cry out in protest before it came whizzing back down to hit him square in the face.

He quickly disarmed her, sitting up and throwing the pillow aside. “Don't start,” he said, the smile on his face killing any air of a serious demand. “That's what got us into this in the first place.”

“Oh,” flirted Rukia coyly, propping herself up and letting the blanket fall away from her naked form, “and you're saying you don't want to ' _get into this_ ' again?” She raised her eyebrows provocatively.

Ichigo licked his lips. “Not _now_ ,” he ground out, with obvious reluctance and restraint. “In fact, we should get dressed, my family's probably going to be back soon.”

She pouted. “You're no fun.”

“I'm plenty of fun,” he muttered, grinning and leaning in for a kiss she graciously took.

She couldn't really argue with that.


End file.
